It had been a long, shitty week. Not only were the assorted “journalists”—and I used that term very loosely—wreaking havoc on my town, but Detective Connelly had decided the only way I could prove my loyalty to the department was by becoming the perfect lackey. He had me scanning, faxing, and general paper pushing all the days of my life.

My dang papercuts had papercuts.

Meanwhile, he and my father had been sitting down with every witness interviewed in the original investigation looking for any information that may have been overlooked. Connelly didn’t come right out and say it, but his attitude made it clear that he thought Bootleg was a bunch of ignorant rednecks policed by a smaller group of even more ignorant rednecks.

I couldn’t say that I much cared for his barely veiled contempt. Neither did Mrs. Varney, who said the man was slicker than owl shit. Or Fanny Sue, who’d been berated by the man over a misunderstood message. Fanny Sue was so mad, when she spotted a drunk Otto Holt mid-piss on Connelly’s front tire, she just turned around and went whistling on her way.

It was an hour from the end of my shift tonight. An hour before I could go home and smush my fur friends. And I was relishing the fact that the Man Who Shall Not Be Named had left on some vague, urgent, “nobody questions a homicide detective” business. He probably had to poop or kick a nest of baby squirrels.

I used the opportunity to grab one of the ancient cruisers in the parking lot.

It was a Thursday night on the cusp of winter and Thanksgiving. Dark. Cold. Quiet.

Very quiet.

The only people on the streets were press. You could tell them from everyone else by their shoes—usually loafers—and the tech gadgets permanently affixed to their hands. Where were my neighbors? I cruised up the hill to The Lookout. The parking lot should have been full but there were only a handful of vehicles parked up against the building.

I looped around and drove back into the heart of town.

Storefronts were dark, which wasn’t unusual for 9 p.m. on a Thursday. But what was unusual was the fact that the apartments above Bootleg’s retail spaces and the houses were dark, too. Where in the hell would my entire town have gone?

On a hunch, I pointed the car east. Bootleg Springs depended on tourism, but that didn’t mean that we didn’t get good and sick of the tourist crowd every once in a while. While most of the rental properties were on the western end of town, doglegging the lake, Bootleg had reclaimed a few places to the east.

The secret hot springs were there. Protected by No Trespassing Signs and solemn vows that Bootleggers would never reveal to outsiders the existence of the springs. We’d long ago ceded the regular springs in the lakeside park to the crowds of travelers that descended every year. But the secret springs, we kept those to ourselves.

There was also a crescent moon-shaped beach tucked between tall rock outcroppings, accessible only by boat or what was affectionately known as a goat path. Everyone headed there the weekend after Labor Day for a beach BBQ that lasted into the early hours, celebrating another successful summer.

My nose for trouble didn’t give me anything to sniff at near the springs so I continued on. The weather had warmed enough for some serious snow melt. I noticed what looked like a whole mess of wet tire tracks leading off of the main road and onto Still Lane, a twisty, turny mountain road. There was nothing up there but a handful of private properties and an army of potholes that could swallow a Mini Cooper.

Curious, I turned onto the road. I bumped along slowly, wondering if something really was wrong or if I was imagining things. I liked to think I had good instincts, but they’d let me down before. Case in point: Bowie Bodine. Maybe I was one of those people who thinks they’re really good at singing when they’re actually just really annoying and warbly. And convinced of their talent, they go around singing in the grocery store just waiting to impress passers-by. When in reality, they’re scaring everyone off. Like “Oh, no! Here comes that dang crooning third-grade teacher again. Will someone please tell her she doesn’t have to sing her to-go order to me?”

I shoved my concerns out of the way when I spotted it.

Old Jefferson Waverly’s property was lit up like a Christmas party. There was a veritable sea of vehicles parked in his north pasture. Light spilled from the cracks between the planks of his picture-pretty picnic barn.

I spotted Rocky Tobias’s souped-up pickup parked next to EmmaLeigh’s VW Bug. Reverend Duane’s decades-old sedan was parked in front of Granny Louisa’s El Camino. It looked to me that every dang Bootleg resident was in attendance. Was there some hoedown that I’d forgotten to RSVP to?

I spotted Bowie’s SUV toward the back of the field on one side of Wade Zirkel’s flashy extended cab. Gibson’s Charger was on the other side. They were parked right up against Wade’s truck. I rolled my eyes.

The Bodines didn’t feel kindly toward Wade Zirkel after he cheated on Scarlett. Never mind that she shouldn’t have been dumb enough to date him again in the first place.

I parked my cruiser near the barn and climbed out. The low murmur of a sizeable crowd reached out and beckoned from the barn. Something was definitely afoot.

Picking my way over the uneven ground, I came up on the side door to the barn and stopped to listen.

“All right. All right. Let’s call this meeting to order,” I heard Mayor Augustus “Auggie” Hornsbladt call.

What in the hell was going on?

My curiosity got the best of me, and I pulled the heavy wood door open. Yep. All of Bootleg Springs was crammed inside on lawn chairs and wooden benches. Mayor Auggie was standing up at the front on a milk crate talking into a wireless microphone.

Not wanting to announce my presence quite yet, I decided to get inconspicuous. Zadie Rummerfield was sitting on the end of a bench at the back of the barn. I nudged her over. She shot me a guilty look as she scooted.

Uh-huh. So this was an event I wasn’t invited to.

I noticed that my father wasn’t in attendance. Either it was something against me and my family, which I doubted, or this was something Bootleg wasn’t keen on advertising to the law.

“Thank y’all for coming,” Auggie said into the mic. He was wearing his usual uniform, a cowboy hat and bib overalls. “As you’re all aware, we’ve got ourselves a problem.”

I crossed my arms and kicked my legs out. Someone poked me in the shoulder, and I looked up.

Bowie.

“Move down,” he whispered to me.

Reluctantly, I scooched closer to Zadie who was, by now, all but falling into Jimmy Bob Prosser’s lap.

Bowie sat next to me, shoulders touching, knees rubbing. “What are you doing here?” he demanded in a low whisper.

“My job,” I said flatly. “You think the Bootleg PD wouldn’t notice when the entire town goes missing?”

“It’s not what you think, Cass.”

“What do I think it is?” I seriously had no idea. But it was yet another thing I’d been cut out of. I wondered if I should get another cat.

“You’re not gonna like what you hear,” he predicted.

“I think I’ll survive,” I hissed dryly. I didn’t need him deciding what I should and shouldn’t hear. I didn’t need him period.

The crowd was rumbling again over whatever their shared problem was. I had a feeling I knew what it was.

“They set up shop in my cafe,” Annie called from the middle of the crowd. Annie ran the Yee Haw Yarn and Coffee. “They buy one cup of coffee and suck up the Wi-Fi for the whole day.”

“They’ve been blocking my driveway for a week straight now,” Lula complained from somewhere on my right. Lula owned and operated Bootleg Springs Spa. She also lived two blocks over from me. I’d been shooing reporters away from the neighbors, but I’d have to expand my reign of terror.

“They’re littering.”

“One of them almost ran over Bex when she was crossing the street the other day!”

“They called us all uneducated slow-talkers in their paper!”

“They’re sitting in front of the high school offering students money for information!”

“I heard one of them call Reverend Duane, Reverend Redneck!”

“One of them tried to kick Mona Lisa McNugget!”

A collective gasp rose up in the barn.

“I hear y’all and I’m in agreement. We gotta get rid of these here reporters,” Auggie announced. “Now, who’s got a plan?’

Oh, Lordy.